Page 121 of The Keeper

“Can I ask you something?” The sound of his voice startled me.

I leaned back. “Sure.”

“What was your sister like?” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Were you two similar in many ways?”

Before I read through her diary, this answer was simple. Now? I sighed.

“Yes and no, if that makes sense.” I chewed on my lip. “She was older than me by three minutes and really enjoyed bossing me around. Or trying to.”

“Ah,” he grinned. “Glad it’s not just me who fails miserably with it.”

“Shut up.”

“Nope. I got you to smile. I think I’m going to continue.” He squeezed my waist. “So, she’s bossy.”

“Not your kind of bossy.” I thought for a minute. “We both shared a love for all things pop music. When we discovered the Spice Girls it was like a religious experience. We’d put on concerts in her bedroom. I was Ginger Spice, she was Baby Spice and,” I laughed, “Killian was Posh Spice on occasion.”

“I bet he has a great pout and looks smashing in little black dresses.”

“He does,” I giggled. “How did you know?”

“Intuition,” he smirked. “Continue, please.”

“Um, we had different interests at school. Well, that’s not entirely true. We both joined the debate team. I loved speaking in front of people, thinking on my feet, and really learning to appreciate two sides of an argument. So did Charlotte. She was actually the captain. She also wrote for the school newspaper and helped plan the fundraisers our class held with the parish. We went to a Catholic school, in case I didn’t mention it. Um, I was homecoming queen. She was class president.”

The unrelenting emptiness I’ve felt since the day she died tugged at me.

“She was my best friend. We shared everything. We dressed alike until we were ten. When I made the executive decision to only wear clothes that were purple, she bailed.”

“That’s bold.”

I poked him. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”

“Sorry.” A soft kiss landed on my nose. “Go on.”

“Charlotte would always tell me how lucky I was to be so naturally outgoing. She was much more reserved than me but just as friendly. I think she had some social anxieties but back then nobody really talked about it like now. She saw a few doctors and seemed to be doing okay.”

Part of me wanted to tell him everything. The diary, the party, the bonfire. Every detail of what happened those summers in England and how all our lives changed one random spring morning. I wanted to unburden myself. I wanted to let him in.

Instead, I shrugged. “We were alike but different.”

He smiled. “She sounds like a lovely person. I think I would have liked her.”

A tremor streaked through my body. Maybe he never crossed paths with her that summer. Maybe it wasn’t him she saw get attacked at the party.

On an impulse, I traced my finger along his scar. He flinched, snapping his head away.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling my hand back.

He grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Don’t be sorry. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Does it bother you when I touch it?”

Something flashed behind his eyes. “Probably as much as it bothered you when I asked about your sister.” He pressed his finger to my mouth when I started to speak. “But I like your gentleness. I like how it feels when you touch it, even though I don’t respond particularly well to it.”

Every nerve ending, every fiber of my existence yearned to get the answers I craved.

“You really don’t know why those kids jumped you?”

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